Incident of The Red Buffalo
by Ash10
Summary: When a devastating prairie fire brings Favor's trail drive to its knees, Gil rediscovers exactly what's most important to him.


Today I came the closest to firing Rowdy Yates as I've ever come before. Tired as I am of this drive with its fractious drovers and cattle, lousy weather, dust and just general all over bad luck, I am that much more tired of my ramrod and his need to question my every move and order. Something or somebody's got to give. My name is Gil Favor and I'm trail boss of this outfit; days like this make me wish I wasn't.  
  
---- "Damn it, Boss, this shouldn't a happened! The men are dog tired. They need rest and this, what happened this morning only proves it!" Rowdy Yates wiped his sweaty face with his bandanna before retying it about his neck. The effort was in vain. Sweat continued to form, dripping from his lightly bearded chin like individual drops of rain...or tears.  
  
Gil Favor slammed the bible closed and confronted his ramrod. "This was an accident, plain and simple. No need to make more out of it!"  
  
The grave at their feet was shallow due to the hard-packed earth. Rocks covered the site and a crude marker, a piece of board with a name painted on, already lurched to one side as if it had been there for months or years instead of only moments. Noticing, Wishbone crouched down and attempted to straighten the marker. He succeeded, to a point and only until the wind picked up. The grave, marker and all was a haphazard affair and everyone knew it. There was no time to grieve just like there had been no time to get to know the old drover's Christian name. Time was money after all.  
  
"He wouldn't a fallen and knocked his brains out on a rock if he'd a had some sleep last night! There's no call to push men so hard they can't stay awake in the saddle! It's wrong. What happened to Jonesy only proves it!" Rowdy held Favor's gaze, not backing down or off, daring the boss to prove him wrong.  
  
Gil Favor did not take the bait. "It's over and finished. We need to make time today; already wasted too much! We gotta get these beeves to market." Favor walked off leaving Rowdy with his mouth hanging open and at a total loss for words.  
  
Wishbone grabbed the youngster by the arm and steered him away. Right or wrong, it was time to go.  
  
---- Fire quickly overspread their position. Luckily, the shallow cave afforded just enough of a depression into the rocky hillside to allow the fire to burn past. Gil Favor wiped his watering eyes back across a dirty sleeve, blinking away cinders. Around him on the ground lay his men; what was left of them anyways and every single one hurt.  
  
Rowdy Yates' busted arm hung useless at his side, but his attention was not focused on his own pain. Across his lap Jim Quince writhed in agony from a burned left leg. Through chaps and trousers and all the fire had ravaged. Blistered skin hung like crepe paper from the charred limb. Rowdy offered what little water remained in a canteen. Jim swallowed the few drops and begged for more.  
  
"There ain't no more, Jim. I'm sorry." Putting aside the empty container, Rowdy gently patted Quince's shoulder, looking up as Favor walked by. "There ain't no water, Boss. He needs some bad." Glancing around the tiny enclosure and the huddled group of devastated men he observed, "They all do."  
  
"I know that, Rowdy." Favor peered out as the fire blazed in every direction, an impenetrable wall of heat and flames. "Soon's the fire burns out I'll find water. That damned river – the river can't be too much further."  
  
The prairie fire overtook them faster than Gil thought possible. Even running the herd full out the flames caught up and then passed the thundering cattle as if they were standing still; passed over them, consumed them. The cry became every man for himself.  
  
Wishbone and Mushy escaped on the back of a single horse, one cut from the traces of the supply wagon; the other three horses bolting in panic as heat and flames surrounded them. This time it was Mushy who tended the more seriously injured Wishbone. Both had swallowed smoke and suffered burns, though none of the deadly nature, although there was always the threat of infection. The supply and chuck wagons were lost as far as anyone knew.  
  
Hey Soos was missing as was Pete Nolan and Joe Scarlet, but Gil Favor had every reason to hope they'd crossed the river to safety. Nolan and Scarlet had been riding point and small light Hey Soos had the fleetest horse of the remuda beneath him when last seen.  
  
Favor had dragged Clay Forrester to safety, though it seemed for naught. He lay unconscious in the corner, tended by Toothless, but aware of nothing. Gil believed his skull was fractured when his horse stumbled, throwing Forrester down a ravine. In a sense it was Clay who saved the remaining drovers. If Favor hadn't seen the horse go down and ridden into the ravine to search for the fallen rider, the cave would never have been found.  
  
Gil crouched at Rowdy's side. "Your arm needs settin' 'fore it swells any more." Looking around he realized there was nothing within the shelter to use as splints. "Guess that waits a while, too." He rocked back on his haunches and a feeling of unaccustomed defeat washed over him. There was absolutely nothing he could do for his men, but wait, watch and worry – the true calling of any good trail boss and Gil Favor's own private hell. Quince moaned and Gil swore at his own impotence.  
  
Thunder rocked the cave followed by a brilliant flash of lightening. "Could mean rain this time, Boss," Rowdy's voice hinted at hope.  
  
"Probably just the same heat lightening that started the fire." It would take more than fireworks to turn Gil's thoughts from despair to hope and it was quick to manifest. Rain poured from the sky, putting out the fire and turning the blackened landscape into a quagmire. Canteens were filled; thirsts slackened and wounds washed and tended with whatever lay at hand, precious little.  
  
Darkness fell and still the rain fell in torrential sheets. It was folly to venture out, but Gil did if only far enough to gather up whatever was at hand to splint Rowdy's arm. Fire being fickle it burned most but left some – trees or bushes that were blackened skeletons on one side sometimes were untouched on the other. Satisfied with a few straight branches Gil returned to the cave, slipping, sliding and falling, scraping the skin from his hands, but he never felt the pain.  
  
With Mushy's surprisingly able assistance Gil set Rowdy's arm using two belts to hold the splints in place. It didn't look pretty, but it worked. Several bandannas tied together sufficed as a sling.  
  
Jim was shivering, but there was nothing with which to cover him. Gil thought to move him further back into the cave where he could lay next to Clay rationalizing that body heat would keep him warm, but he was afraid to move the terribly injured drover; afraid he'd cause more suffering.  
  
Dawn brought a break in the rain and Gil decided to venture out – to search for the missing men and supplies – to bring back help, although it was already too late for Clay Forrester. He'd died during the night without ever waking, leaving Gil sad and drained. The lack of energy was only temporary. Stirred to action by the needs of the men around him, Favor left the cave with instructions to "wait for me. I'll be back. I promise."  
  
Knowing the only place safe from the ravages of the fire lay across the river Gil headed north. If any of the men survived, he would find them there.  
  
Crossing the turbulent water nearly ended up being wishful thinking. The river boiled with the overabundance of rain and run-off from upstream and was choked with debris – entire uprooted trees, the bloated carcasses of his own cattle...Favor stopped considering what else the river might hold. There was no choice – he had to cross.  
  
A log discovered tossed up onto the bank might do as a means across. If he held on tightly and kicked with his feet he just might make it to the other side, though probably down river quite a ways from his starting point.  
  
Gil shoved the sodden log into the fast-flowing water holding on for dear life and kicking frantically. He lost count of how many dunkings he took or how much brown silty water he swallowed before finding a fleeting anchor on the slick river bottom. Dragging his exhausted aching body out of the water proved nearly impossible. Debris knocked into him, almost tearing his numb fingers away from the precarious handhold on the log. He lost his footing and again and again was thrown onto rocks or dragged underwater. Just as he thought he'd never make the last few yards to dry land, he heard a voice.  
  
"Boss, grab for the loop!" Pete Nolan sat his bedraggled buckskin, awkwardly swinging a lariat over his head before the rope snaked out, just shy of Gil's reach. "Damn it!" Nolan yanked the hemp back, formed another loop and let fly. This time his aim was perfect.  
  
Gil caught the loop and draped it down over his head and upper chest, careful not to lose his one-handed grip on the log. "Pull!" he called out.  
  
Pete backed his horse up slowly, drawing Favor out of the water and up onto dry land. Nolan was quick to his side, easing the rope off and helping the boss sit up.  
  
"Thought it was the end of trail sure that time...thanks, Pete." Gil took the pro-offered kerchief and dried his face, getting a good look at Nolan for the first time. "You're a sight for sore eyes," he grinned, though the grin quickly changed to a frown. Nolan's right arm was wrapped from wrist to shoulder in a makeshift bandage which appeared to be strips torn from a shirt, spotted and striped with dark stains. "You bad hurt?" he questioned.  
  
"Not bad, Boss, but I don't rope none too good with my left hand. Can't remember a time I couldn't catch what I aimed for with one loop." Pete grinned somewhat sheepishly.  
  
"If that's meant as an apology, there's no need!" Gil hesitated, afraid the answer to his next question would not be to his liking, but knowing he had to ask anyway. "Any others make it across besides you, Pete?"  
  
Nolan helped Favor to his feet. "There's eight here countin' me. I found two of the men dead...couldn't make out who they were." A shadow clouded the scout's face at the memory. "How 'bout you, Boss? Any more where you came from?"  
  
Favor nodded. "Wishbone, Mushy, Rowdy, Jim Quince, Toothless...they're alive, but all hurtin'. Clay's dead. Died last night. The rest need help and I promised to bring it."  
  
Gil and Pete rode into the makeshift camp sharing the tired buckskin. The men were overjoyed to see Favor and their warm welcome brought a lump to the boss's throat. Their feelings echoed his and handshakes and greetings made the rounds of injured, exhausted drovers. Like the men Gil had left behind, there wasn't one here who didn't bear the mark of the fire's savagery; some terribly burned or broken and others like Pete, walking wounded who cared for those less fortunate and searched without rest for survivors and much needed supplies.  
  
"I found the chuck wagon yesterday. The horses were played out...had to shoot the gray, but we got food and coffee and a course, plenty a beef, though nobody here's much of a cook. I got a sort a stew boilin' with onions and spuds. Some of the men are too hurt to eat anything much, but they can get some a the broth down. Try some, Boss?" Nolan held out a plate. "Can't say it's all that tasty, but it's hot and fillin'."  
  
Gil helped himself to stew and settled down at the fire, his clothing drying and his empty belly filling at about the same rate, fast, "Stew's fine, Pete, just fine," Proving his point, Favor ladled himself out another full serving.  
  
Pete sat down cradling the burned and aching right arm, while he watched the boss eat, pleased that his efforts were appreciated. "When we goin' over to pick up the men, Boss?"  
  
Favor looked Nolan over. The scout appeared to be running on sheer will power alone. "We aren't going. I'm going and I'll take Hey Soos. You watch over things here. Rest awhile; give somebody else a chance to shoulder some responsibility."  
  
Gil chewed thoughtfully for a moment, taking in the tidy camp with its makeshift canvas to keep the weather off the injured men; food and coffee on the fire; and a remuda set up. "You done good, Pete. I don't know as anybody coulda done better."  
  
At the unexpected praise a slow blush suffused Nolan's face. "I had a lot a help," he admitted, indicating the nearby Hey Soos and Joe Scarlet.  
  
"That might be so, Pete, but in the end it's the boss of the outfit who takes the knocks or the praise – this time it just happens to be praise, so take it." Gil waited for a response.  
  
Pete smiled, "Thanks, Boss. Guess I'll take it then."  
  
Although Gil had refused to allow Pete to accompany him and Hey Soos on the rescue mission across the river, he was hard put to keep the determined scout from his own mission – that of searching out the supply wagon.  
  
"Mr. Favor, I made a sweep a three quarters of the burn and found nothin' but two dead drovers and nearly a thousand charred beeves. That supply wagon's gotta be where I ain't looked – south and east of the river. It's gotta be there and I'm gonna find it, with your permission or not. Those supplies can keep us alive until we reach the fort." The moment Hey Soos tightened the cinch on Buck, Nolan swung into the saddle his injured arm tucked into his opened shirt, the grimace of pain fleeting, yet noticed by Favor. The scout was right and Gil knew it and so, grudgingly, consent was given, though it was only a formality.  
  
The least seriously injured of the drovers remaining at camp, Joe Scarlet, was put in charge. Favor drove the emptied chuck wagon with Hey Soos riding shotgun. Pete followed alongside on horseback until the river was safely crossed. Already the water had receded to where the crossing was possible, though still not entirely without peril. Once on the opposite bank, rider and wagon parted company.  
  
The reunion proved happy as the injured men were carefully moved out of the cave, down the rocky incline and into the wagon. Wishbone had recovered and was his usual garrulous self, mother-henning everyone else, clucking and hovering over men he determined to be his charges and his alone. Gil was glad to see it.  
  
The others appeared no worse off than when he had left them. All were hungry and vocal about it save Jim Quince, who hovered in and out of consciousness and when he was coherent asked for water, of which there was plenty, or swore at the absent Joe Scarlet, convinced his old pard wasn't answering out of sheer cussedness.  
  
There was time to lay Clay Forrester to rest. Gil's bible had been lost, left in his saddlebag or wrapped in his bedroll and consumed, like almost everything else, in the fire. Closing his eyes and bowing his head, Favor repeated the words from memory. "Ashes to ashes and dust to dust...." The Lord's Prayer ended the brief service. Words were few as those men able to stand at the gravesite donned their hats and made their slow way to the waiting wagon.  
  
Rowdy, standing at Gil's side, commented quietly to the silently grieving boss, "he was a good man...made me laugh...."  
  
Favor nodded and after a long moment added, "That's a rare enough gift for any man and a fine epitaph." Pulling the battered Stetson down low over his eyes and with a hand beneath Rowdy's good arm, Gil assisted the young ramrod to the wagon.  
  
Pete Nolan waited at the river crossing, his mount anxious, dancing and difficult to control as if reflecting the rider's emotions. As the wagon rolled into view, Pete rode to meet it. "Found the supply wagon! The canvas is gone and the bed's burnt beyond repair, but most a the supplies are okay. Might be the flour'll have a smoky taste, but not more than usual what with the way Wishbone's been burnin' the biscuits lately!"  
  
"I heard that, Pete Nolan," the cook growled, but there was no mistaking the grin that lit the old geezer's face when he laid eyes on the scout for the first time since the morning of the fire.  
  
Pete grinned broadly in return, greeting each of the drovers by name as his mount danced and generally acted up in the presence of such unabashed joy. "After we unload this cargo," Nolan clapped Rowdy on his uninjured shoulder, "we can head back for the provisions."  
  
The return crossing was more tentative than the first what with the wagon loaded down and more apt to tip in the rushing water. Gil took things slow and easy and the opposite bank was reached without mishap.  
  
However, Pete Nolan's horse, still feeling frisky and once in the water somewhat skittish, was making it hard for Pete to keep tight control of the gelding's antics with only one hand on the reins. When an uprooted mesquite bush swept by, grazing the animal's flank with its prickly branches, Buck reared, throwing Nolan into the water. The accident wasn't serious, Pete quickly found his feet and walked out onto the bank, but he was soaked to the skin and shivering by the time Wishbone reached him with a blanket.  
  
Suddenly the scout was aware of just how badly his burned arm hurt; how each step up onto dry land seemed mired in exhaustion and how oddly his head felt – as if it was floating somewhere above his shoulders and not solidly attached to his body. Shivering didn't help; neither did Wishbone's blanket. He made it to his pallet just as his knees buckled out from under him. All he could hear plainly aside from the buzzing in his head was Wish's fussy clucking. "Stop it, will ya, Wishbone? I can't hear myself think!" he protested, to no avail. His caretaker continued to fuss and cluck. Wishbone was back in his element.  
  
Some sensations were meant to be ignored and Pete tried his best to ignore these – Wishbone was cutting the filthy river-water soaked bandaging off his arm. Raw, moist burned areas stuck stubbornly even to the wet fabric and although Wish tried his very best to be gentle, Pete knew this because of the murmured apologies offered with each tug or pull, the efforts were pretty much in vain. The torture seemed to go on forever, with Wishbone going off somewhere, only to reappear and begin the torture anew. Pete figured the healer was probably off caring for the other injured men; many of whom were a whole lot worse than Pete allowed he was and much more in need of Wishbone's tending.  
  
Finally Wishbone returned to stay. Dropping the last of the cotton shirting to the ground, he sat back and sighed. "Mushy, I'll need that pan a water – the water I been soakin' the witch hazel in. And bring some clean cloths outta the wagon, too."  
  
Pete wanted to roll over and go to sleep, for about a week, but rolling over was not allowed and he sure as hell couldn't sleep for the pain as Wish checked each open burn and each water-filled blister. Nolan closed his eyes and kept them that way. Not even the sound of Mr. Favor's voice, that deep rumbling baritone, not even that got him to open his eyes. "You lied to me, Pete; told me you weren't hurt bad."  
  
"I didn't lie, Boss,' Nolan responded. "Just didn't believe I was hurt bad, not compared to some of the others."  
  
Gil Favor thought on that and couldn't say Pete was wrong there. Compared to a couple of the others, Ransom – who didn't look to live with multiple broken bones and severe burns and Jim Quince with the deep thigh burn, Nolan's injuries weren't too bad. But compared to no injuries at all, the weeping raw areas, some the size of silver dollars and the blistered peeling skin which covered most of the right arm from wrist to shoulder were plain awful. Gil could imagine how it felt. Even a tiny burn from a cigarette ash was singularly painful.  
  
"Since it appears you ain't goin' anywhere for awhile, best be givin' me the location of the supply wagon." Gil crouched down all the better to hear the scout's words. As usual, Nolan's directions were clear as glass and would be easy enough to follow.  
  
Wishbone interrupted by laying a palm across Pete's forehead. "He's got a good fever goin', but I'll soon have that down. Got some willow bark tea brewin' for him and the others. Mostly he needs sleep." Wish emphasized the last word.  
  
"That's no lie," Pete murmured, yawning. "I'd sleep now if I wasn't bein' bothered so much."  
  
"You'll sleep soon as I finish and then you can sleep till the cows come home if that's what 'cha want. 'Course if Mr. Favor here is gonna stand around expectin' some sorta deep philosophic conversation...or maybe he needs ya to draw him a map to that supply wagon?"  
  
Gil got the less than subtle hint. Even though he didn't believe he'd been particularly chatty, obviously Wishbone thought differently and the old healer could be very protective of his patients. "I'm leavin', Wish."  
  
---- The insistent voice at his ear could no longer be ignored although Pete Nolan figured that he surely hadn't slept an entire week yet nor had the cows come home. He opened one eyelid. No, he hadn't imagined the voice, nor had he imagined the words. "Pete, you gotta wake up now!"  
  
Had it been anyone else he would have just refused. A single curt "no" would suffice had the speaker been anyone but the boss. Pete opened both eyes, with obvious effort. "What's a matter, Boss?" he slurred as he tried to get all his faculties to operate at the same level. "What's the matter?" came out a bit more understandable.  
  
"We got company – Kiowa; looks to be some sort a chief along with a dozen warriors." Favor glanced over to where the Indians stood. Pete followed his gaze.  
  
"Not a chief," Nolan corrected, "but a medicine man and a well thought of one at that. He say what they want?"  
  
"Probably, but since no one besides you understands the language...." Gil replied.  
  
Dawn finally came up over Marble head and Pete understood, even in his foggy state, the reason for Mr. Favor waking him. He struggled to sit up, but the boss put a firm hand against his shoulder, preventing it.  
  
"No need. I believe I got it across that you're hurtin'. Don't think your medicine man will take it as disrespect if you don't get up."  
  
Pete had his doubts. To show a lack of respect was a grievous error in judgment. Again he struggled to at least sit in the presence of so dignified a looking individual.  
  
Striding forward to stand at Nolan's side the Kiowa medicine man, exuding an air of quiet dignity and of a nearly regal bearing, shook his head. When he spoke, the words were softly offered and without anger.  
  
Pete paid strict attention; his desire to interpret the man's words as close to perfect as possible vitally important to him personally and to their situation in general. "He says I'm not to get up on his account; that his name is Ghost Dog and he's a medicine man, second in power only to the chief. He believes I'm the boss of the drive; says I've been seen many times since the coming of the Red Buffalo." Nolan's words were also softly spoken and with only slight hesitation.  
  
"I set Ghost Dog straight about who's in charge here, so he'll talk to you through me, Boss." Pete waited while the medicine man spoke without pause for several moments and then interpreted.  
  
"Since the Red Buffalo – that's pretty much accepted Indian lingo for a prairie fire – since the Red Buffalo, a dozen or so of our cattle wandered onto their land. Some of 'em were hurt real bad, burned and such. Those were slaughtered for food, hides and all and most a the meat dried. Game's been scarce around here for some time, Boss. Our beeves been a god-send for 'em. Ghost Dog came to sort a thank us, but not in so many words. Kiowa are proud. Ghost Dog is proud.... Rather than take the beef, he wants to offer us a trade – medicines, herbs and such for the butchered beeves and those few livin' ones that ain't been slaughtered yet." Pete didn't have to wait long for Favor's reply.  
  
"So, him and his warriors – they ain't here for any confrontation, just to say thanks and what can we do for you?" Favor seemed skeptical and why not? Up to this time relations between Kiowa and whites had been less than cordial, but if this was a first step....  
  
"That's it, Mr. Favor," Nolan agreed, adding, "I see no reason to doubt Ghost Dog's word."  
  
"I'm not sure I trust him, but I do trust your intuition, Pete. Give Ghost Dog my thanks. A trade would be fine." Gil waited until Pete finished translating then held out his hand to close the deal. After a tense moment when it seemed perhaps the gesture was the wrong thing to do, Ghost Dog tentatively shook the outstretched hand.  
  
With the ice broken, Ghost Dog got down to the business of being a medicine man. Crouching down he lifted the edge of the wet compress which covered the arm of his translator. Peering intently at the burns he bent lower, sniffing the compress, discerning which herb soaked it and nodding at the choice.  
  
"Well? I do somethin' he approves of or what?" Wishbone had taken Gil Favor's place and stood, arms folded across his chest, waiting for an answer. As if understanding the question, Ghost Dog ran off several rapid fire sentences.  
  
Pete smiled. "You did, Wish. Ghost Dog said if this was your work, and I told him it was, you were a good medicine man, knew your herbs and such. Said my burns would likely heal fast with your treatments. He also wanted to know if you needed more of anything particular; says he's well stocked."  
  
Wishbone appeared pleasantly surprised. "Said I was a good medicine man, did he? Well, I'd say he's a mighty fine judge a character and ability and tell him that I sure could use a few things. I'm runnin' low and that's for certain what with so many men needin' doctorin'."  
  
The words were duly translated. Ghost Dog rose to his full and impressive height, towering over the diminutive Wishbone. Very solemnly he extended his right hand – one healer to another.  
  
"I'll be, well I'll just be!" Straightening to his full five feet and seven inches and wiping his soapy hands across his apron, Wishbone shook.  
  
---- Rowdy reined in at the supply wagon, Pete Nolan close on his heels. Although both men's right arms were supported by slings they were in no way hampered by their shared situation. Both were animated and happy, jockeying for position and speaking over each other in their need to relate the good news. Rowdy won out by sheer force of will and the louder voice. "Boss, me and Pete come across most of the cattle in a box canyon – not ten miles from here! Must be close to two thousand head just eatin' and growin' fat on good grass. This drive won't be a total loss after all!"  
  
Gil Favor had been taking inventory when he'd noticed the pair race up, faces lit with excitement and looking like two kids playing hooky from school; the pain and loss endured during the previous two weeks momentarily forgotten. Gil put down paper and pencil. "Two thousand head you say?"  
  
"Yeah, Boss. For once Rowdy ain't tellin' a tall tale! It's gotta be at least two thousand; maybe more!" Pete's excitement was contagious. Even Buck felt it, prancing and impatient at being held in even temporary check.  
  
"Won't be a total loss after all, huh?" Gil repeated, suddenly pensive as he glanced around the well-made camp.  
  
Most of the burned and injured men were up and about. Jim Quince was hobbling around on a crutch fashioned by Joe Scarlet and even Ransom, the drover no one gave one chance in a thousand to live even one more day, was sitting up and talking, his burns and broken bones healing nicely. Recovery would take months and the scars would last forever, but he was alive.  
  
The camp bustled with activity, the kind that went along with a living breathing trail drive, albeit on a slower, low key scale. Men laughed, ate and played cards. Men griped about the monotonous food and lack of whiskey and women. Men worked on saddle leather and odd jobs. Several familiar faces were missing and the loss was keenly felt, but most days now were very nearly back to whatever normal was on a trail drive.  
  
When Gil Favor again looked into the faces of Rowdy Yates and Pete Nolan, it was with a solemnity of expression that did not fit the occasion. Rowdy misunderstood. "Boss...we thought you'd be happy."  
  
Favor nodded. "I am happy, Rowdy. But I'd a been just as happy if you two had never found those missing cattle and before either of you say anything – I know how that sounds. Me, Gil Favor, trail boss, sayin' he'd be just as happy if two thousand steers had stayed missin' - I know how crazy it sounds...but it's true. Chalk it up to livin' through two of the worst weeks of my life...or chalk it up to finally figurin' out what's important in life – most important and it ain't cattle or pushin' a herd through faster than any other trail boss or squeezin' a penny till it screams just to make a bigger profit." Gil shook his head and a warm smile creased his face. "That ain't it at all – not by a long shot."  
  
---- "Head 'em up! Move 'em out!" With those words the drive to Sedalia began anew. The pace set was slower; the drovers easily tired out from those first days back to the real work at hand, but that was okay. Progress was made and miles traveled. The herd would get to the rail head. It might arrive a few weeks shy of record time, but that was okay, too. It would get there. Gil Favor would see to that; no, Gil Favor and his men would see the job done.  
  
END 


End file.
